


Don't Wanna Miss a Thing

by XaviaAndromedovna



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Human, Angst, Armageddon AU, Established Relationship, Fluff, Humor, I Blame Tumblr, I'm Sorry, M/M, No seriously angst everywhere, PTSD, driller!Derek, driller!Sheriff, not a hale!Cora, trans!Isaac
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-29
Updated: 2014-01-29
Packaged: 2018-01-10 02:20:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1153617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/XaviaAndromedovna/pseuds/XaviaAndromedovna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Stiles’ dad kinda wanted Derek dead and one time he saved his life.</p><p>Or, that Armageddon fusion your feels didn't need right now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Once upon a time, [dereks-henley](http://dereks-henley.tumblr.com/post/60114361142/oh-my-fucking-god-an-armageddon-au-where-the) posted the following prompt: Oh my fucking god an Armageddon AU where the Sheriff and Derek are part of the team that goes into space wile Stiles waits for them back at NASA. afjksavhhz i cry this needs to happen asap and it needs to make me sob
> 
> Tumblr came to a consensus that we simultaneously need this fic and need to never, _ever_ write it because it'll melt all our faces off with tears. Meanwhile, [lamboyster](http://lamboyster.livejournal.com) submitted some _gorgeous_ [artwork](http://acuisle.tumblr.com/tagged/armau) to [Teen Wolf Reverse Bang](http://twreversebang.livejournal.com) on LJ, which I was assigned to pinch-hit. I incorporated some fleshing out of the story suggested by wolf-hunters-moon, 1001-cranes, helenish, and drunktuesdaze (you can find the chain I worked from [here](http://drunktuesdaze.tumblr.com/post/60329116232/helenish-1001-cranes-wolf-hunters-moon)), and a bunch of type-sobbing later I give you this fic. I'm gonna go hide in a corner now.
> 
> This was beta'd by the ever-wonderful Raven, who shares my concern about the presence of guns on an oil rig. Also, the characters are fusions, so they might read a smidge ooc; this and any errors are all my doing. 
> 
> See endnotes for potential triggers.

Only two people on the planet are even remotely happy about an impending mass extinction event: the guy facing down the barrel of a shotgun and the guy whose father is holding it.

Derek Hale’s morning starts out like any other: the constant throbbing of the oil rig, the bright sun of the South China Sea, the pulse of Stiles’ erratic heartbeat next to him, Harry barging through his bedroom door.

Wait, shit.

“DEREK!”  Derek springs out of bed and out of the corner of his eye watches Stiles subtly draw his toes back under the covers.  “Well, that’s just perfect!” Harry bellows.

“You’re pissed.”  Derek mentally facepalms.  _No shit he’s pissed, and he’s not gonna get any happier_.

“No, Derek, I am way beyond pissed.  You know I shut down number two last night, right?”

Lucky for Derek, this is Harry Stilinski, illustrious owner of the rig, not Harry Stilinski, irate father of his closeted boyfriend.  “I had a hunch.”

“Let me tell you something.  Someday, many years from now, when you’re all grown up and you’ve got your own oil company and eight million dollars of your own money on the contract, you can do whatever comes into that idiot Derek mind of yours.  But as long as it says Stilinski Oil on the rig, you will not disobey my rules, you got that?”

Clearly Stiles got his love of words from his father.  Derek channels as much of that power of rambling deflection as he can.

“Yes, sir.  I’m sorry.  I’ll never do that again.  I was stupid, I know what name’s on the sign, I just—“

Harry holds up a finger.  “What’s going on here?”

The problem with Derek trying to ramble is that he gets easily derailed.  “What…’s going on here?  Well, I screwed up, again, I should have—“

“Derek, how long you worked for me?”

Derek scrunches his eyebrows.  “Five years.”

Harry is giving him that look, the look that reminds him of a sheriff interrogating a witness.  “In five years you have never apologized to me.”

That’s not true, he apologized on… Thanksgiving.  Four years ago.

“I’m turning over a new leaf.  I need to—“

The golf club that Harry’s been clutching is suddenly at Derek’s throat.  Slowly, he moves the club from Derek’s neck to the pipe behind him, where a faded graphic tee reading _Stud Muffin_ had been hastily tossed.

Of _fucking_ course.

Harry pulls down the covers and whispers a disbelieving, “Stiles?”

Stiles sits up, unamused.  “Hi, Harry.”

Derek’s eyes dart from his boyfriend, who is glaring defiant daggers at the intruder, to Harry, who is trying so hard to keep from snapping.

“I have asked you repeatedly to call me dad.”

“Sorry, Harry.”

Harry’s eyes lock on Derek’s.  “Just stay right there, I’ll be right back.”

Derek doesn’t stick around to see what he brings with him.

He’s been using oil rigs as his own personal jungle gym since before the Stilinskis took him in as a teen, so he scales the pipes with a grace that earned him the pet name “Sourwolf”. (“You parkour around here like a beast of prey and you always look like you’re about to rip my throat out with your teeth”, Stiles said once in explanation.)  Shots ring out and he feels bursts of air race past him at points, but he keeps running. 

Stiles comes out wearing only Derek’s Carhartt, which _barely_ covers the smaller man’s ass and is certainly providing a show for the people fifty feet below him.  “HARRY, PUT THE GUN DOWN!  YOU’RE ACTING INSANE!!”

“Now son, go put some clothes on and get outta the way!”

“You can’t control my life!”

“Fine.”  Harry aims the gun at his son.  “Clothes.  NOW!”

Stiles takes the hint and rushes off.

By now everyone is watching Harry chase Derek through the tiny artificial island, and when he corners him, Derek tries to reason with him.

“Harry, stop!  STOP!  Listen to me!”  Harry doesn’t move, so Derek continues.  “I love him.”

“WAY wrong answer!!” 

Derek cries out as a bullet hits him in the right shin.  “Whoa, Harry,” Scott cautions, “it’s getting real.”

In an instant, Derek knows he’s going to die at the hands of the guy he’s looked up to for as long as he’s known him, the guy he’s wanted to make proud ever since he knew what a titanium depth gauge was.  He lost his family once because he slept with the wrong woman, and he’s gonna lose it again because he slept with the wrong man.

Just then, a chopper circles the landing pad.  Derek Hale gets to live another day.

The commander that steps out of the helicopter means business, and Harry is soon whisked away on a matter of “national security”.  Of course, because the issue is nowhere _near_ settled, Harry takes the mature route and forces Stiles to accompany him.

Derek smirks, trying to hold in the waves of relieved laughter that threaten to break his characteristic scowl.  It’s clear his (probably now former) boss doesn’t know just how long they’ve been together if he thinks separating them’ll do any good.

Meanwhile, he should probably remove the bullet from his leg.

~~~

If Harry thinks being in a loud aircraft will keep Stiles from yelling at him, he’s got another thing coming.

“Listen, Harry, Derek is _my_ choice, not yours.”

Harry sighs.  “He’s the only one in your age bracket.  It’s not a choice, it’s a lack of options.”

Oh there are _plenty_ of options for a guy surrounded by smoking hot drillers.  Anyway, not the point.  “What the hell gives you the right to tell me what to do anymore?”

“I suppose being your father doesn’t count.”

“Not really.”

“Since when?”

Stiles shoots him the, ‘ _you really wanna go there?_ ’ guffaw.  “Since I turned eighteen six months ago, since I reached the age of ten and became older than you, since mom died.”  Bullseye.  “Take your pick.  I’ve been seeing Derek for more than five months and I’m not gonna stop now.”

The older Stilinski leans back in his seat, hand kneading the stressed, hurt face turned away from Stiles.  “I don’t want my son dating a roughneck.”

“Dude, this life is all I know— are you really surprised?  Alright, when I was twelve Rockhound bought me a hooker in Taipei so I’d ‘stop being so pathetic’.  I learned about the birds and the bees from Isaac’s tattoos.  The first time I thought about Derek like that Danny explained to me what bisexuality was using a box of donuts and a frozen pack of hotdogs.  Look, I was raised on roughnecks, _by you_ , and now you’re shocked and shaken when I fall in love with one.”

Harry still isn’t looking at him.  “What about Heather?”

Stiles flails his arms to indicate ‘ _are you effing crazy?_ ’  “What about her?  We didn’t wanna die virgins, that’s it.”  And, oh hey, so he totally just talked to his parental unit about losing his virginity.  Awesome work, Stiles.  “Is this about the guy thing or the Derek thing?”

“Stiles, half my crew is queer, it’s not the guy thing.  I’m not necessarily _happy_ about it, but I guess it doesn’t really surprise me.” 

Stiles rolls his eyes.  “Well isn’t _that_ greeting card-quality…” he mutters, “and you wonder why I didn’t tell you.”  When Harry shouts over the engine asking what he said, he instead responds, “So this is a Derek thing.  Well newsflash, Harry: you treat him more like a son than you ever have me.  You can pretend all you want that this is about my safety or my _virtue_ or whatever, but we all know this is about him never being good enough for you.”  Derek will probably kill him later for airing that particular insecurity, but oh well.  It accomplishes the desired effect; the man finally looks him in the eye before looking down at his hands.

Stiles doesn’t need to hear the currently-subsonic murmur: he knows his father’s “ _I miss your mom_ ” face.  He tentatively grasps his hand before releasing it and settling in for the long, awkwardly silent ride.


	2. Chapter 2

Harry Stilinski is so numb he barely feels Stiles slip a panicked hand into his.  Everyone— _everyone_ — could be dead in two weeks.

“This is unbelievable,” his son whispers.  He probably doesn’t even realize they were the same words Harry said when Claudia was diagnosed.

Alan Deaton, the man in charge of the top secret project for which they’re being debriefed, stands and moves to a wall of windows overlooking Mission Control.  “Well, it’s coming right for us, at 22,000 miles an hour.  Not a soul on Earth can hide from it.”

Another uncomfortable minute passes before Harry is able to box it all in and continue with business.  “Seven billion people on the planet, why’d you guys call me?”

“We need you to lead a team up to the asteroid, drill a hole to deposit some nuclear bombs, then take off and detonate them.”

“And I’m the best you’ve got?”

“You’re the best we’ve got.”

Stiles pins Harry with the most terrified look he’s ever seen on the boy’s face.  Normally, the kid would be monologuing about the dangers and how unfair this is and how stupid it is for his father to do this, but the gravity of the situation seems to have gotten a hold of his tongue, and all he can do is beg with his eyes that he say no.  But ‘no’ is not really an option any more.  “All they gotta do is drill?” he stalls.

“That’s it.”

“No space-walking, no crazy astronaut stuff?”

Deaton shakes his head.  “Just drill.”

“How many were you thinking of taking up there?”

“We’re sending up two shuttles— two teams.”

Harry sighs, a hand trying without avail to rub the stress off his face.  “If I do this, I’m gonna wanna take my own men.”

“So you’re saying you’ll help us?”

He nods, ignoring how Stiles’ hand trembles.  “Yes, sir.”

Deaton half-smiles before leaving the two Stilinskis to cope.  Stiles stands up to start pacing.

“You said yes… you actually fucking said yes.”

“I just don’t trust anybody else to do it, that’s all.”

“Yeah, you know who you sound like right now?  Derek.  Actually, no, Derek probably sounds like you, you’re probably where he learnt to put the weight of the world on his shoulders all the damn time.”

“Stiles—“

“Not now, Harry, I’m coping.  Look…”  Stiles sighs.  “I get it.  I know you have to do this, I just—“  He moves to the windows and fixes his gaze on the vast rows of consoles below.  “You’re gonna take ‘em all with you, aren’t you?”

Harry shuffles in next to him and puts a hand on his shoulder.  “Yeah.”

“Even Derek?”

Fuck.  He can already tell this is not going to be easy.  “Even Derek.”

Stiles sucks in an uneven breath and lets it out hastily.  Stilinski knows the beginnings of a panic attack when he sees one, so he pulls him close and tries to calm him down.  Several minutes pass before Stiles speaks again.

“I, um, want to apologize to you for—“

“Stiles, you don’t gotta apologize at all.  I, I shouldn’t have dragged you around on all those oil rigs, I just… I don’t think that I did the right thing with you.”

“You’re wrong!”  Stiles pulls back to look in his father’s eyes.  “I love my life.  I love everything about my life.  And I love you.”

Harry pulls his son into an even fiercer hug than before.

“Promise me that you’ll come back.”

“Okay.”

“Say, ‘I promise.’”

“I promise, Stiles.”

 

~~~

Choosing his crew was the easy part.  Finding and preparing them is another story.

VERNON BOYD is possibly the only black man in South Dakota, but is definitely the only one there riding a Big Dog.  For some reason NASA thought a police chase was the best way to entice him to come with them.  Because black men trusting the police has worked out _so_ well in the past.

DANNY MAHEALANI is half-Hawaiian, half-Italian, all muscle, which is crazy because he eats more than the rest of the crew combined.  It’s his high metabolism and grueling workout routine that makes him the heaviest man coming on the trip.  His mother doesn’t take too well to her baby being taken into custody mid-tattoo.

JACKSON “ROCKHOUND” WHITTEMORE is a cocky, horny bastard.  Also, hella rich; he just works for Harry for the fun of it.  He’s trying to score a girl in a sleazy New Orleans bar when he gets picked up.  His immediate response: “How old are you?”

ERICA REYES left the rig two years ago to open a horse ranch outside El Paso, but is still the best damn geologist Harry’s ever had.  She also held her own doing drillwork with the guys while still managing to look flawless (not that that’s hard when you’re the only femme in sight).  Just for shits and giggles, she tries to outrun a helicopter on horseback.

SCOTT McCALL has a gambling problem but a heart of gold.  His ex-wife, Allison, lives with their son somewhere in Iowa, but he’s got a craps table at Caesar’s and a lucky roll.  He’s never been in trouble with the law before, so when armed men come up behind him in a casino, he’s pretty sure he’s about to be taken out Sopranos-style.

ISAAC LAHEY has been working for Harry since he was sixteen, back when he still identified as a butch lesbian and his father was still beating him for being queer.  He’s got a bit of a bad boy streak, but he’s fiercely loyal to his work family, especially since the rig is the first place he was accepted as a man.  He goes more than willingly.

DEREK HALE has the distinction of being the only one recruited for this mission by Harry himself.  _How_ he managed to start his own oil company in 48 hours is beyond Harry, but it’s one of the sadder outfits he’s seen.  Of course, the part that wants to spite him for sleeping with Stiles is greatly amused, but the part that needs to save the world plays the game.

“Yep, you are on your way, Derek!”

Derek nods awkwardly.  “Being in business for yourself has its advantages.  I make my own hours, nobody shoots me in the leg.”  Harry snorts but doesn’t say anything.  Derek stops what he’s doing and faces him.  “So you need my help.”

“Something like that.”

The younger man’s always had expressive eyebrows, and he raises one now.  “Is it ‘like that’ or is it that?  Because it sounds like there’s actually a job that the great Harry Stilinski can’t handle by himself.”

Harry considers braining him right there for being an arrogant ass, but he restrains himself.  He sets his jaw and steps into Derek’s space.  “There’s not a job on the planet I’d want you to work with me on.  I mean that.”  He turns and walks back to the car with a pretty good idea of what surprised shape Derek’s eyebrows have taken this time.

“Then what are you doing here?  Harry!”  He catches up to his old boss.  “What’s the job?”

 

~~~

Deaton also happens to have a medical degree, so he oversees the preliminary examination.  He is so far unimpressed.

Firstly, the crew had some hefty demands.  Erica wanted her copious tickets pardoned.  Boyd wanted to stay at the White House.  Isaac wanted his transition fully covered by insurance.  Scott wanted a week at Caesar’s Palace and the real identity of JFK’s killer.  Oh, and none of them wanted to pay taxes.  Ever.

It is highly unlikely that any of these roughnecks has ever seen a doctor outside the emergency room.  Isaac has to be sedated for his physical before he decks the nurse.  Most of the other guys have a similar reaction when taken in for their prostate exam.  Erica refuses to pee in a cup, and Danny faints at first sight of a needle.  When told his cholesterol is damn-near impossible, Boyd gets up on the table shouting “PORK RIND THIS!” in his underwear.

The psych eval isn’t much better, especially with Stiles giving a running commentary behind a two-way mirror.  Derek glowers at Dr. Morrell in silence for the entire 60-minute session.  Two minutes in, Boyd is bawling: “I am not crazy, I just get a little emotional is all.  I don’t get to let out my feelings every day and you’re throwing all this stuff at me… can I get a hug after this?”  Erica goes on a ten minute rant about Jethro Tull that makes Stiles proud.  Evidently, Scott has a habit of ‘wolfing out’ (“like hulking out but cuter”), which he does when the Newton’s cradle gets on his nerves.  Oddly, Rockhound seems the most psychologically sound, although he’s clearly too smart for his own good and _knows_ it.  Also, for some reason he avoids the mirror the entire interview.

“Fail, fail, impressively fail,” Deaton scoffs as he sifts through the folders.  Harry leans over the table.

“Can they physically survive the trip or not?  That’s all I need to know.”

Deaton stares right back.  “Personally, I don’t know how they survived the test.”

He doesn’t like it, but he stamps NASA APPROVED across all eight files.


	3. Chapter 3

Stiles spends the next week watching everyone he loves train for a job from which he _knows_ in his heart not all of them will make it back.  But he keeps on his brave face and continues being the team mascot, smoothing relations between the roughnecks and the NASA personnel.  Easier said than done when his father and his boyfriend are constantly at each others’ throats.

Chris Argent and Cora Watts are also not Stiles’ favorite people.  Boyd, Erica, and Isaac all seem to have a thing for Watts, but she puts them in their place rather quickly, and more or less acts like she’s better than all of them on a daily basis.  Argent took one look at Stiles watching from the sidelines, muttered something probably offensive, and moved on.  They’ve been enemies ever since.

Things aren’t actually so bad in the beginning.  The roughnecks bond over their demolition and reconstruction of the drill, and the novelty of their training.  Part of him wishes he was going up there with them— no one doubts his drilling prowess, but between Harry and Derek he won’t be allowed anywhere _near_ the launch site.  That part of him is quickly extinguished when he sees the others flying in jets, swimming in self-contained suits (Isaac _loved_ that one…), exercising five hours a day, and otherwise pushing their bodies to the limit in preparation.

The plan is simple: they take off, dock at the International Space Station to refuel, slingshot across the dark side of the moon, and take the asteroid from behind (he, Danny, and Derek somehow manage to stifle their laughter).  And by simple, they mean this is by far the most dangerous part of the entire trip, except, you know, the whole we’re-throwing-nukes-into-an-asteroid-that-wants-to-kill-all-of-the-things business.  Stiles may or may not be having nightly panic attacks.

He spends a lot of his time brushing up on Chinese for when (not if) they go back to work, and Russian because currently the ISS is only manned by a Russian cosmonaut and _because I can, Derek, stop looking at me like that_.  Deaton lets him help out with random housekeeping things sometimes, just to keep his hands from fidgeting.  He sees the looks everyone at NASA keeps giving him; he knows they want to send him home, but they recognize that he doesn’t _have_ anywhere else to go.  It makes him fidget more.

It was a really good decision putting Harry and Derek on separate teams.  They’re more or less civil to each other when they interact, but by the last day before launch, tensions are at an all-time high.

“Derek,” Harry warns during a routine underwater simulation, “back it off, you’re gonna blow the transmission.”

“Harry, would you let me run my team, please?”  How Harry doesn’t know by now that pressuring Derek just makes him more stubborn is beyond Stiles.

“Boyd!  God damn it, I know what I’m doing, c’mon!”

The transmission blows.

“If you want to replace a member of the crew,” Argent says haughtily, “now’s the time.”

“Do you wanna go home?” Harry hisses when Derek re-emerges.  “Is that it?  Do you wanna be fired?”

“My crew was doing the right thing.”

“Your crew blew the transmission!”

“That NASA computer is just playing it safe.  The machine you built, the rig can—“

“SHUT UP!”  That’s probably the first time someone’s ever had to say that to Derek.  “Those men in that room have zero tolerance for showing off, going with your gut instinct, or you trying to be a hero, you got that?”

Derek, as always, says nothing, just stands there furrowing his eyebrows.

Harry’s apparently not having any of that today.  “Say the words, Derek.”

“I got it!” he growls.

Stiles can’t bear much more of this, so he goes to find Deaton.

“The crew’s taking the night off,” he says as calmly as he can.  Deaton fixes him with a confused look.

“What do you mean off?”

“I mean off, as in _not here_ , as in spending their last freaking night on Earth doing something other than trying to rip each others’ throats out.”

“Stiles, we can’t just let them run around out there, they’re a security risk.”

“Look, I can’t contribute much to this whole saving the world thing, but if there’s anything I know it’s those guys down there you’re entrusting the fate of the world to.  They will snap before you even get them in the atmosphere, I guarantee it.  Give them the night off.”

“Stiles—“

“He’s not asking you,” Argent pipes in from the doorway, “he’s telling you.”  He walks away.

Huh.  Maybe Argent’s not so bad after all.

 

~~~

When Scott pulls up outside a house that’s not his own, he tries not to remember the night he left or the look on Allison’s face when she told him he wasn’t welcome around their son anymore.

“What are you doing here?”

Allison looks as beautiful as the day he married her, but a little more tired and a lot more jaded, if the bags under her eyes and the frizzing curls are any indication.

“I was just passing by on the, uh, I mean—“

The boy comes seemingly out of nowhere, playing obliviously with some toy as he approaches his mom.  It makes Scott choke on whatever lie he was stumbling over.  He wants nothing more than to touch him, just to mess up his hair or lift him over his head. 

“Who’s he?” the kid asks.

“That’s a salesman,” Allison responds softly, patting the child’s head.  “Can you go inside, please?”

He obeys dejectedly.  When out of earshot, Scott finally finds his tongue.  “He got big.”

“You can’t come around like this, Scott.  The court says you can’t.”

“No, I know, it’s just, I wanted to say that, I’m sorry.  About everything.”  He fishes out a toy shuttle from his pocket.  “Could you give this to him for me?  You don’t have to tell him who it’s from just…”  He places it on the sidewalk.

Allison gives a terse nod.  Scott guesses that’s as good as he’s gonna get.

 

~~~

Derek and Stiles are in a field far away, the only two people around for miles.  Stiles is lying on his back, unbuttoned button-down only on because he gets chilly sometimes, while his tee lies forgotten somewhere around them.  Derek tries to connect every inch of his body to his love in some way, cuddling him from the side with his leg in between Stiles’.  Currently, Stiles is going on one of his many diatribes about, of all things, crackers.

“I really don’t think that the animal cracker qualifies as a cracker.”

“Why?”  Derek goads with a smirk.  He’s probably the only person on Earth who _likes_ listening to a Stiles monologue for more than 90 seconds.

“Well, it’s sweet, which to me suggests cookie, and… I mean putting cheese on something is sort of the defining characteristic of what makes a cracker a cracker.”

Derek plants a kiss on the boy’s cheek to distract himself from how Stiles’ obliviously sinful oral fixation draws an animal cracker in and out of his lips absently.  When he moves an arm across Stiles’ chest, his partner moves the cracker down from his mouth and places it in the center of his stomach.

“We got like an animal cracker, Discovery Channel thing happening right here.”  Derek snorts, which of course cues Stiles to bring out his _awful_ attempt at an Australian accent.  “Wutch the gazelle as he grayyzes through the open playns.”  The ‘gazelle noise’ he makes has Derek actually full-out cackling, and by the time he’s composed himself Stiles has pulled another animal cracker from _God knows where_ and placed it on the edge of his thigh. 

“Now look— as the cheetah approaches!  Wutch as he stalks his prayy.  Now, the gazelle’s a little spooked, and he could head north,” Derek feels the gazelle ghost past his arm in a way that makes him tingle about as much as Stiles’ voice does, “across the brooooding forest to the wet cayves beyond”.  Stiles drags the cracker sensuously across his bared neck and stops just at his open lips.  “Or,” he continues, sweeping the gazelle in a gallop back towards his stomach, “he could go south.”  Derek fixes him with a look of feigned unamusement, when really he just wants to fuck him five ways to Sunday.  Suddenly, Stiles gives up on the accent as his voice becomes a touch too breathy to not give Derek a hard-on.  “The gazelle now faces man’s most perilous question: north?”  He drags the cracker agonizingly slow up his chest.  “Or south…” the gazelle slides down to his belly button.  “Way... down…” it follows his treasure trail to the top of his boxers.  “Under.”  Derek lets out a grumble of satisfaction when Stiles places it gingerly under the waistband.

Gently, Derek slides down Stiles’ body before coming to a stop with his head above his lover’s crotch.  Stiles hitches a breath when he pulls the waistband the slightest bit down and picks the cracker up deftly with his teeth, flipping it into his mouth with his tongue and ending with a smug crunch.

“Fuck, that’s hot,” Stiles whispers.  Derek tries to pour all of his love for the man squirming beneath him into kisses up his pale, mole-dotted chest.  Right on cue, the chest vibrates with Stiles breaking the silence.  “Do you think it’s possible that anyone else in the world is doing this very same thing at this very same moment?”

Derek ends up right where he started, arm draped across Stiles and snuggled into his side, staring into those soulful amber eyes.  “I hope so, otherwise what the hell are we trying to save?”

Stiles responds with a passionately light kiss.  It reminds Derek of what he’s wanted to do since this whole ordeal started.  He reaches over to his jacket off to the side of the blanket and pulls out the ring he bought on the way over.

“Will you marry me?”

With all the caution of someone who doesn’t want to be a klutz in this moment, Stiles takes the ring and puts it on his left hand with a tiny nod.

“I love you, Stiles.”

“Love you too, Der bear.”

Derek rolls his eyes at the nickname, but he figures the best way to retaliate is by kissing his fiancé senseless.

He doubts Stiles will complain about that.


	4. Chapter 4

 When Harry sees Stiles the next morning, he can’t help but notice the addition to his left ring finger.  He turns around and ignores Stiles calling for him as he goes to blow off steam.

After about two minutes, he’s amassed a small train of roughnecks trying to calm him down.

“Stiles is old enough to vote, Harry,” Rockhound tries, “he’s old enough to get married and hopefully divorced if he wants to.”

“Let me tell you something fellas,” he responds, not bothering to slow down let alone dignify them with a response.  “When I get back, when we get this job done, I will deal with this in my own way.”  Preferably with another shot to the leg.

“C’mon,” Rockhound continues.  “It’s not like I’m actually _rooting_ for either of those two, I’m just saying Stiles isn’t really a little kid anymore.  While we were off trotting the globe hunting mud, Stiles grew up to become, as Danny puts it, a full-blown hottie.”

He stops and gives the two a molten glare that dares them to continue.  Danny ignores it.  “He can _definitely_ stop asking if he’s attractive to gay guys, he is fully hot—”

“Danny!  Hey!  You’re talking about my barely-legal son, alright?”  Good Lord, he should’ve stapled a sign to the kid’s forehead years ago reading ‘JAILBAIT’.  “I think I know who and what he is.”

“Look,” Erica takes over, attempting to use all of her feminine charms to pacify him.  “All we’re saying is that we’re talking about a kid who’s coming into his own right now, and he’s exploring his sexuality, and you know what?  That’s a natural thing.”

Boyd chimes in before Harry can respond.  “No disrespect, but we all helped to raise him, so we all feel like a bunch of parents here.”

Harry knows he’s not going to win this one, but he shakes his head anyway.  “I’ll be damned if I worked all these years so my son could marry a roughneck.  He’s better than that.  He’s better than all of us.”

Scott puts a hand on his friend’s shoulder.  “Maybe he doesn’t want to be better than us.  Maybe he just wants to feel like one of us.”

God dammit.

 

~~~

Stiles’ goal for the day is to delay having a panic attack until after the shuttle doors close.  He follows the fourteen crew members up to say goodbye for what very well may be the last time.

He knows his dad is still upset about the engagement, so he isn’t too offended when all he gets is a kiss on the cheek and a, “see you in a couple days, kid.”  It’s probably better for both of them not to draw this out.

He pats the shoulder of everyone who comes out of the elevator before drawing Derek into a totally cheesy rom-com style prom-hug and kissing him without worrying about who’s watching.  It’s nice to do this out in the open for a change.  “You promised me a song,” he whispers, knowing Derek will ignore the unspoken context: _you promised me I’d get you to sing once before you died_.

Derek blinks— and would never, ever admit that those are tears he’s quelling, the big softie—then huffs dramatically with a grimace before acquiescing.  Stiles responds with a shit-eating grin.

“ _All my bags are packed, I’m ready to go._ ”  Oh, well played, Derek.  “ _I’m standing here outside your door.  I hate to wake you up just to say goodbye._ ”

“ _So kiss me_ ,” he does, “ _and smile for me._ ”  He always does.  “ _Let me know you’ll wait for me_.”  He nods.  Maybe this was a bad idea.  “ _Hold me like you’ll never let me go._ ”

Nevermind, this was an _awesome_ idea, because Derek picks him up off the floor and starts belting it off-key.  “ _‘Cause I’m leaving on a jet plane!  I don’t know when I’ll be back again!_ ”

And then…

AND THEN… Boyd, Rockhound, and Danny start singing in three-part harmony like they planned this shit, to the amusement of everybody remotely in the area.

And as the guys sing off into the sunrise, Derek puts him down with one last kiss.  “Mine.”

“You bet your ass you are.”

 Reluctantly, Derek follows the still-singing future heroes, and Stiles misses his family already.

 

~~~

Harry is a little less amused by Derek’s antics.  “That boy don’t take anything seriously.”

“Yeah,” Scott commiserates, “reminds me of a guy I used to know.”  He fixes Harry with a pointed look that time and experience know to mean _you ginormous idiot_ , although with Scott’s signature good-naturedness.  Harry sighs as his best friend heads for the shuttle, taking his time following him.

He wants to hate Derek, he _really_ does, but it’s kind of hard to hate the kid he’s been watching after for as long as he’s known him.  Okay, so Stiles is right, maybe he does see Derek as a son, but he’s totally not the favorite right now.  He’s moody, overconfident, rash, and stubborn.

He’s also the best driller Harry knows.

When it’s time to split off to their separate shuttles, Harry stops Derek with a firm but non-hostile hand on his shoulder.  “How you feeling?”

It’s probably the first thing he’s said to the guy since their blow-up in the simulator, but Derek takes the unspoken détente.  “Good.”  Stiles taught him that the way to get Derek to keep talking is to stare at him until he does.  “I’ve never been this scared in my entire life.”

“Listen, once you get up there, you’re going to be on your own.”  This is harder to say than he thought.  “If anything should happen…”

“I know, Harry.”  Obviously neither of them want to say it, but they know.  “I’ll try not to disappoint you.”  It’s not a full smile Derek gives him as he walks away, but a smile from Derek is always a rarity to be treasured.

“Take care of yourself, kid,” he mumbles, heading off to his own shuttle.

Taking off is incredibly nerve-wracking, but it is absolutely worth it when things level out and before him is nothing but stars.  Space is arguably the most beautiful thing he’ll ever see.  He opens his visor and stares into its secrets with soundless wonder.  To his left, he can see Earth getting smaller and smaller.

Stiles is probably tearing his hair out that he can’t see it for himself.

The comm crackles and Deaton’s voice fills the cabin.  “Ladies and gentlemen, you’re coming up on the International Space Station.  Keep in mind that Cosmonaut Martin has been alone in space for the past eighteen months, so don’t be surprised if she’s a little, well, off.”

“We know all about ‘off’, don’t we, Harry,” Rockhound quips.

Harry humors him with a small laugh.  Maybe he’s right.  Maybe the rest will be smooth sailing.


	5. Chapter 5

Stiles finds something to do when Houston tries to establish contact with the space station.

“ _Zdrav-STVEE-chay!_ ” the comm engineer tries.

“Nope!” Stiles pops out loudly, “not even close.  Let me.”  The comm operator shoots him a panicked look because maybe shit like this doesn’t happen in mission control?  But Stiles is bored out of his freaking mind and even _he_ can do a better job of communicating with the Russian than this guy.  He hip-checks him lightly out of his seat and sees Deaton nod to the guy that it’s okay.  Stiles beams.

«Здравствуйте, МКС!  Это Хьюстон!»

A woman with gorgeous red hair appears on the screen with an amused smile.  «Привет, Хьюстон, это МКС!  Вы меня слышите?»

«Да, слышу.»  If Stiles were on the market, the smile the woman gives him would make him melt immediately.  She seems to take a liking to him, because she asks his name.

«Радослав Гаролдович Стилинский,» he says with uncharacteristic pride, because his first name sounds a lot more awesome in Russian.

«Приятно, Радослав.  Меня зовут Лидия.»  Lydia smiles once more before shifting her eyes up to the man he displaced.  “I’m ready to fire my thrusters.”

“Standby,” the operator advises smugly while Stiles flails about.

“I’m not going anywhere,” she responds before terminating the feed.

“You mean she—“

“Almost all astronauts her age speak both Russian and English,” is Deaton’s patronizing response, “especially since she was born in America.”

He blinks.  “So you didn’t need me to—“

“I needed you to stop pacing and I figured the best way to do that was to channel your gift of talking too much.”

Stiles opens and closes his mouth a few times trying to process that, before settling on, “yeah, fair enough.”

 

~~~

Entering the space station is definitely one of the coolest things Derek has ever done.  It’s also fucking terrifying.

When all the astronauts have assembled in the center of the station, the Russian cosmonaut flips gracefully from the ceiling and lands before them with every hair perfectly in place.  She takes one look at them, points to Derek, and says, “You, follow me.  Everyone else, don’t touch anything.”

She’s very clearly not the type of woman used to hearing no.

He follows her to a long shaft coated in icicles whose depths are hidden by swirling fog.  She hands him a warm jacket.  “Put this on.  The fuel pod is down there.”  Of course it is.

He carefully climbs down the ladder, the cosmonaut right above him.  “It’s very important you watch the fuel gauge,” to which she points with a gloved but delicate finger.  “150’s okay, 160… okay… but 200 means disaster for the space station.  If it gets too high, press this button, call for me, and pull that yellow lever.”

“And you are…?”

She rolls her eyes.  “I’m Lydia, and you’re slow.”

“We’re ready to transfer,” Argent calls down the chute.

“I’m coming,” Lydia replies with exasperation as she climbs the ladder.

Derek takes in cramped compartment around him.  Everything’s in Russian, so it’s a good thing he has a visual memory.  Also, it’s unbearably cold.  He imagines Stiles geeking out and going off on another rant about Cyrillic or liquid oxygen or some other completely inane topic.  It gives him comfort.  He fixes his gaze onto the pressure reading.

This can’t be too hard, right?

Not even two minutes later, the gauge spins immediately to 200.  Derek calmly presses the button and calls for Lydia. 

And calls.

And calls.

“Lydia!” he shouts up the tunnel, jumping in front of the camera he sees in front of him.  “Can anyone hear me?!”  The dial keeps climbing.

He goes over to the lever and yanks as hard as he can, but it’s frozen stuck and doesn’t seem to want to budge.  When he hears it snap, he stares at the broken-off handle for a second and tries not to panic.

“LYDIA!!”  He continues jumping up and down, waving the lever in front of the camera.  “HARRY, ARGENT, SOMEBODY!!!”

He screams every name he knows until he finally hears Lydia shouting down to him.

“Derek, pull the lever!”

“THIS IS THE LEVER!!”

“Fuck, Derek get out of there!  Colonel, we need to get him out of there!”

As soon as Derek sets foot on the ladder, sparks start shooting out of everything.  He tries to climb and protect his face at the same time, which is no easy feat.  Halfway up, he feels _really fucking hot_ then _really fucking cold_ , and belatedly registers that he was just on fire for a second.

Oh holy fuck, he’s gonna die.  He’s gonna die in a fire, just like the rest of them.

He hears Lydia and Argent fighting above him.  Lydia tries her hardest to stay with Derek and make sure he gets out okay, and Argent keeps trying to pull her towards the shuttles.  Instead of wasting energy arguing with them, he climbs as fast as his body and the sparks allow.  By the time Lydia pulls him out of the shaft, one of his sleeves is aflame and the rest of the crew has locked the door to the chamber.

“C’mon, this way’s our only chance!”  She pulls out a hatch that releases a shit-ton of strips that look like a rope ladder.  “Hold your breath or your lungs could freeze.”  She hoists him up effortlessly and the two crawl to the end of the passage, where they fall into another chamber.

“Shit!” she yells, running towards the nearest shuttle.  “They’ve closed the doors!”

When they make it to the end of the corridor, they bang on the door with everything they have.

“LET US IN!”

Incredibly, Boyd opens the door, hauls them in, and slams it shut again as the shuttle flees the exploding station.  He stays on the floor for a bit, trying not to hyperventilate.  _Just breathe_ , he reminds himself, and the voice sounds a lot like Stiles.

“Bunch of cowboys,” Lydia mutters, dusting herself off.  “I told you not to touch anything…”

 

~~~

If life were fair, the space station exploding would be the worst thing to happen to them today.

Harry has the sneaking suspicion that life isn’t fair.

The slingshot behind the moon is probably the most stress his body’s ever been under, drawing out screams of agony as the shuttles hurtle toward the other side.  When the pressure lessens and the asteroid comes into view, he holds a breath.

It’s beautiful, gorgeous in that tragic way that bodes no good for anyone.  “See that?” he whispers in reverent awe.  The end of the world is a floating dance of lights and jagged edges.

As they enter the tail, the detritus becomes more and more dense, and evading it more and more difficult.  It’s a confusing mash of angry beeps and soaring rocks and vibrations that jostle his soul.  Suddenly there’s shouting and he sees a strange mass ahead.

“Argent, what the hell is that?  Is that the _Independence_?!”

His answer is a body hitting the windshield.

The bottom falls out of his stomach and he just feels _lost_ , because all he can do is loop it in his head: _the_ _Independence has gone down, the Independence has gone down, the Independence has gone down._

When they land about twenty-six miles away from where they were supposed to, he collects himself and begins doing what he does best: leading his men.  He forces down the what ifs as best he can.  What if they crash-landed?  What if they’re not dead?  What if they survived?

He hates himself for thinking it, but he hopes they’re all already dead, instead of wandering injured around an asteroid waiting for the inevitable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who don't speak Russian...
> 
> "Hello, ISS! This is Houston!"  
> "Hello, Houston, this is ISS! Can you hear me?"  
> "Yes, I hear you."  
> ...  
> "Radoslav Haroldovich Stilinski"  
> "Nice to meet you, Radoslav. I'm Lydia."


	6. Chapter 6

Derek returns to consciousness.  When he sees the wreckage around him, he doesn’t bother pretending he’s not crying, because he’s done it again.  He’s the only survivor.

He sees Erica’s body a few feet away and he tries to will her back to life.  “Erica!  Erica!!  Hello!  Is anyone else alive?!!”

“Derek!”  He turns his head frantically to see Lydia stumbling through debris on her way towards him.

“Lydia!”  He shoots over to her and leans on her for support.  “There’s no one else.  There’s no one else…”

“I know.”

But then, they hear a groan.  Racing over to where they think it is, they find Boyd pinned to the ground but still alive.  “Derek,” he chokes out, “I never thought I’d be happy to see your ugly face.”

He laughs as he helps him up and pulls the larger man into a desperate hug.  He begins to hope that not all is lost.

A search of the crash site turns up no more survivors.  Hell, they can’t even find three of the bodies, including Isaac.  Maybe he’s still out there.  Derek doubts it.

The armadillo, miraculously, is completely intact, but they have to shoot up the fuselage to drive through it.  A panel that looks like it might be a navigation screen lights up with a blinking, beeping dot.  He drives in that direction, because that’s about all he’s got left to go on at this point.

The ride is tense to say the least.  For all they know, the other shuttle went down right after them.  Or if they did land safely, there’s no guarantee they can take off again.  They keep driving anyway.

About fourteen miles in, visibility drops dramatically, so Lydia and Derek get out to navigate while Boyd drives the armadillo.  Eventually, they come to a vast ravine.

“I told you we took the wrong way back there,” Lydia spits.

“Do you see any roads here?” he snarks, waving his hand emphatically at the barren landscape.

“I’m sorry, I just thought I should point out how totally fucked we are.”

Ooookay, Derek is about to throw some punches.  “Would you just shut the fuck up?!”  He grabs the nearest projectile and tosses it viciously across the canyon.

Not into it.  Across it.

He gets an idea.

“What’d Cora tell you, Boyd?  If she kicked you in the balls, you’d keep floating?”  He can see the moment Lydia’s light bulb goes off when the two of them get back in the vehicle and Boyd starts backing up.  Boyd guns it and suddenly they’re airborne, careening over cliffs and peaks and all sorts of ridiculously hostile rocks with ease.  Right up until the point they run into a particularly tall formation.

They realize then that they didn’t really plan for how they’d _stop_ floating, and when Lydia tries to turn the thrusters on to avoid it, nothing happens.

“God dammit, you said this would work!”

“How the fuck would I know that?”

“Uggghhh!” she roars.  “I have to go outside.”

“Are you insane?!”

But she’s already suited up.  “As the only actual astronaut on this thing, I’m the only one who has a chance of fix the thrusters.”  Suddenly, she’s outside, and Boyd and Derek are freaking the fuck out.  They run into a few more peaks before Lydia shouts over the comms for them to turn on the thrusters, and as they do, they come skidding to a halt on the other edge of the ravine.

“YES!  FUCK YES!”  Lydia pumps an adrenaline-fueled fist above her head before rushing back inside.

It takes them a few more hours to reach the other crew, but damn are they a welcome sight.

“Hi, Harry,” he drawls with what he knows is his biggest smile to date.  “D’you miss me?”

 

~~~

Stiles never imagined it was possible to have a day shittier than the one where his mother died, but it came.

Things seemed to be going fine at the space station, but suddenly people are running around and rumors of fire are circulating.  Then he hears that Derek and Lydia are trapped in with the fire and the shuttles are going to leave without them. 

At the last minute, he hears the _Independence_ report that everyone is accounted for.  They got lucky.  Now, they head for the moon.

The eleven minutes of radio silence are probably the quietest Stiles has ever been.  He locks himself in the conference room that he’s more or less claimed as his bedroom and sits at the table staring at his ring.  He worries about them; worrying is what he does best.  He knows that that kind of pressure could give a man a heart attack, and if there’s anything Stiles has been trying to prevent the past ten years, it’s Harry’s cholesterol getting the best of him.  He doesn’t breathe fully until they reestablish contact.

He leaves his temporary sanctuary when he hears shouting, and when he’s on the control room floor he realizes that slingshotting was the safe part.  The shuttles are dodging projectiles left and right, something about auxiliary boosters, and suddenly he hears that word.

 _Mayday_.

He tries to focus but he just can’t, the words swimming through his brain and slipping out again before he can process them.  The _Independence_ has been hit.  The _Independence_ is going down.  At least one crew member dead.  The _Freedom_ has overshot the landing site.  They’ve lost radio contact with both shuttles.  The _Independence_ is flatlined.

He stands there, numb.  There’s nothing he can do, nowhere he can go, no one to tell him everything will be okay because everyone he loves might already be dead.  So he waits.

He doesn’t realize he’s crying until Deaton hands him a tissue and leads him to his room, where he gets it out of his system.  At least it’s better than waiting in silence.

About an hour later, the monitors spring to life, and he hears the garbled phrase.  “This is _Freedom_ , do you copy?”  He’s shaking with relief when Cora reports that everyone on his dad’s team is safe.  He holds onto that hope for dear life, that maybe one of them will make it back, just one.

The drilling is not going well, and he watches some power play surrounding the nukes go down from his windowed perch.  Then he realizes what that means: they’re going to remote detonate.  They’re going to blow it up without telling them.

He flies out onto the floor and tries to get in the general’s face before being intercepted by two guards.

“They’re not done drilling yet!  You haven’t even told them!”  He uppercuts one of the guards only to be punched in the gut by another.  “You can’t do this!  That is my _father_ up there!!”

“Let him go!”  Deaton pulls Stiles out of the fray before pointing a wild finger at the general.  Stiles has _never_ seen Deaton be anything other than calm and collected.  “This is one order you shouldn’t follow and you fucking know it.”  He won’t process until days later the incongruity of Deaton swearing.  For now, he’s just fucking relieved to hear that the timer on the bomb has malfunctioned.  And then he hears his father’s voice.

“Houston, you have a problem.  See, I promised my boy that I’d be coming home.  Now I dunno what you people are doing down there, but we got a hole to dig up here.”

Mission Control bursts into raucous applause.  ‘ _Atta boy, Dad._ ’

From there, no news is good news.  But when the armadillo suddenly disappears, the call goes out to warn the world: the mission has failed.

“I guess we do it the President’s way,” Deaton advises, defeated.  “You can remote detonate.”

Stiles slaps a hand into Deaton’s path as he tries to walk away.  “Can they still take off?”

Deaton sidesteps him.  “We hope so.”

Oh, _Hell_ no.  Stiles is done, shit officially lost.  He turns Deaton around gruffly and tackles him to the floor.

“That is my _family_ up there!  I don’t wanna hear ‘ _we hope so_ ’!”

Right as he’s about to beat the living shit out of Deaton, the comm crackles.

“Houston, you’re not gonna believe this, but the other armadillo has arrived.”

He yanks Deaton up and the two rush to the comm station.  They’re alive.  _Someone_ on the other team is alive!  It’s Derek.  Derek is still up there.

They drill the hole and place the bomb, and maybe, just maybe, everything will be okay.

Everything is not okay.

Deaton finds him later and leads him to a bank of monitors.  His dad’s face lights up every one.

“Dad?”

“Hey Stiles.”  He knows that look.  He’s seen that look before and _no_ this not happening again.

“Stiles, I know I promised you I was coming home.”

No.  He’s not saying what he thinks he’s saying.  “I don’t under- understand.”

The older Stilinski sighs.  “It looks like I’m gonna have to break that promise.”

Stiles has been waiting for this day since his mom’s machine stopped beeping and started humming.  It’s the call he’s seen coming for eight years.  He can’t feel his heart beating, but he lets out a breath and says what needs to be said.

“I, um, I lied to you too, when I told you that I didn’t wanna… be like you.  Because I am like you.  And everything good I have inside of me I have from you.”  His father smiles tiredly.  “I love you so much, dad, and I’m so proud of you.”  When did he start shaking?  “I’m scared.  Dad, I’m so scared.”

“I know,” he soothes, “but there won’t be anything to be scared of soon.”  Harry shifts and Stiles refuses to blink, takes in every last detail he can.  “I want you to know that Derek saved us.  He did.  And I want you to tell Scott that I couldn’t’ve done it without him.  None of it.”  Stiles forces out a smile, just for him.  “I want you to take care of Derek.  I wish I could be there to walk you down the aisle, but I’ll,” oh shit, he’s crying. Nonono this can’t be real.  “I’ll look in on you from time to time.  I love you, Stiles.”

“I love you too.”

“Gotta go now, son.”

No. “Dad, no.”  The screens show nothing but snow.  “No.”  He palms desperately at the monitor, like that’ll magically draw him back.  “No, dad, no!”

No…

 

~~~

They never talk about it, because talking won’t ever make it okay.

Derek still has nightmares about that day, though, and he tries not to wake Stiles with his screams or his late night walks around the neighborhood to clear his head.

_He’s back on the ship, staring at the tiny purple wire that means he’s the one staying behind._

_He hears Argent tell him how to detonate the bomb: “plug this into the port.  Lift, press, hold.”_

_“Lift, press, hold.”  He makes a point of looking Harry in the eyes.  Even Derek can’t screw this up._

_“I’ll take him down.”  He remembers the look on each of his friends’ faces as they watch him on the other side of the elevator glass, getting their last looks at one more family member sacrificed to this fucking asteroid.  He tries to remind himself that this is his chance, his penance for surviving the fire.  That this is going to save everyone he loves and everyone he’ll never get the chance to meet.  That this is going to save Stiles._

_He can feel Harry’s silent eyes on him as they don their helmets.  When the door opens, he hesitates.  This is it._

_“Do me a favor?  Tell Stiles… tell him I’ll always be with him.  Can you do that?”_

_“Yeah, okay kid.”_

_And suddenly, he can’t breathe._

_The next few seconds are always a blur of ‘what the fuck’ and ‘oh god I already screwed this up’ and Harry’s voice grounding out “make sure Deaton gets that” before the door is shut and he and Harry are on the wrong sides of it, his O 2 hose pulled out of his suit._

_And it hits him that Harry had no intention of letting anyone detonate that bomb but him._

_“HARRY!  HARRY!  YOU CAN’T DO THIS TO ME!!  It’s my JOB!”_

_But Harry just stares with steely eyes and speaks through tight lips.  “You gonna take care of my little boy, now.  That’s your job.”_

_Fuck.  No.  This isn’t happening.  He can’t go back to Stiles without his dad.  They can’t lose him after everything._

_“I’ve always thought of you as a son.  Always.  And I’d be damn proud to have you marry Stiles.”_

_Derek’s heart collapses_. _This is it.  ‘I’d be damn proud.’  These are the words he’s always wanted to hear from the man across the glass from him— the man who makes him want to be a better driller, a better lover for Stiles, a better man._

_He can’t lose another fucking father.  He CAN’T._

_“Take care of yourself.”_

_“HARRY NO!!”_

_“I love you.”_

_“I LOVE YOU, HARRY!  DON’T DO THIS! **HARRY**!!!!”_

_“Goodbye, son.”_

Every God-damn day he hears those words.  “Goodbye, son.”

If he wanders too far from their street, Stiles pulls up in the Jeep and drives him back to the house, where they cuddle on the couch and cry into each other’s shoulders.  He knows Stiles dreams about it too.  They hang his golf club on the wall in the hopes that the memories will stay with it and leave them alone at night.  It hasn’t worked yet, but Stiles is nothing but persistent.

When they are finally emotionally prepared for the wedding, he takes Stiles’ last name without question.  Scott walks Stiles down the aisle, giving a quick smirk to Allison and their son, whom Scott is undoubtedly ecstatic to have back in his life.  They try not to think about the man whose place he’s taking, and Scott shoots up a quick kiss to the sky for his best friend before sitting down.

Things are surprisingly normal back on the rig, which is probably the biggest shock, seeing as some of its brightest personalities no longer shine there.  But the newest employees look promising.  A pair of twins— Aiden and Ethan—just strolled into his office one day and never really left.  He knows that in this line of work, if you can’t trust the men you’re working with, you’re nobody.  He trusts them, all of them, and he finally feels like he’s earned their trust too, earned his name on the rig.

**Stilinski Oil**

**Derek Stilinski, Manager**

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger Warnings: This fic contains passing mentions of physical abuse and queer bashing/transphobia (Isaac's father warning), as well as statutory rape and mass murder (Kate warning). At the end of the story, Derek suffers a flashback due to PTSD. Also, in case it wasn't obvious, MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH. And a bunch of minor character death that doesn't feel too good either.
> 
> Finally, I own neither _Teen Wolf_ nor _Armageddon_. A _lot_ of the dialogue is shamelessly and blatantly adapted from the movie. Hell, half the ideas for this fusion are borrowed as well (see top notes).


End file.
